I’ve been sitting with my grief for longer periods so that I can really let it go when it is ready. So that it doesn’t get buried in a shallow grave just to resurface when a good storm rolls through. I take the time to really dig deep. To feel all the things. And to leave it exposed for awhile in case I need to take a good look at in the face before I bury it. To make my peace and start to collect new things to add to the grief. More joy, more gratitude. They all accompany each other. But not in a shallow grave buried in haste. They belong Deep, deep in the most intimate parts of your soul and being. And do not give more time to your grief than you do your joy and excitement. Make grief your friend, not your captor. Have compassion and allow for all emotions to have space as they need to grow and change, just as you would your dearest loved ones.

The men sat at my table and told stories of woe.

All was welcome until I had a go.

Suddenly eye contact faded, and things became hushed.

You’re only accepted until you’re too much.

I scanned the room for a friendly face and my eyes landed on him. He was tall and awkward and flashed a shy smile of big straight teeth as he looked up through a sweep of blonde hair across his brow.

At the sweet age of seventeen, I was an outlaw hiding out in Alaska. After years of juvie, I said ‘fuck this’ and sought out a man I had remembered as Dad.

A senior with no credits, this alternative school took me in. Dusted me off. Pulled me up by my scruff and limped me along to a high school diploma.

Tony was my first friend. He was smart, kind, fun- but such a dipshit. We made out a few times and got in a little trouble a few times, and I decided I didn't want to go down the not so good path he was skipping on. I loved him on a deep level. A love that we both recognized immediately. A love bigger than we were at the time.

At last, it was not meant to be. We graduated high school by the skin of our teeth and said our goodbyes.

Thirteen years later the stars aligned for us. He showed up on my front porch and flashed that smile at me just the same as the first time I saw him and my heart fluttered back to 2006. His awkwardness was no more- in front of me stood a tall, muscly, confident man sure to make any woman swoon.

Our hearts had been broken by others, we had both had children, careers, made moves, gotten our shit together a few times over, and we ended up back in that small town in Alaska.

We were married six months later and conceived a son on our wedding night.

Now as I look at our drooly face baby boy with sweeping blonde hair smiling up at me, I can't help but remember the first time I met his father, my almost star-crossed lover.

…

MJ

Cherry red exterior paint

slapped over a flaking mint.

“Two thousand dollars” they now say- that's only for the cost of rent.

Up-cycled tires are holding overgrown flowers, hinting at better times.

Homes of my past, how I yearn for your comfort

If even in my dreams at last.

...

This is in reference to a dream I recently had of a rental home I lived in for several years at $900/ per month. I was a single mom to a toddler and barely making ends meet. Now that home goes for double the rent and is one small example of the housing crises and wage gap in (Olympia Wa) America.

“The big pan is NOT OUT IN THE YARD AGAIN.”

No response.

“TONY there are SLUGS ALL OVER IT.”

“Lol”

“Love me” he finally texts back.

To make my family their favorite chicken, I have to use ‘The Big Pan’.

This pan is loved and hated.

Loved by Mom because I can feed my family their favorite chicken with the use of this ridiculously large baking sheet.

Hated by Dad because he does a lot of the dishes and The Big Pan does not fit in the sink or the dishwasher, and needs to be soaked in order to scrub off the baked on bits.

So in the yard the pan quietly goes.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Until everyone wants favorite chicken again.

Then I am left to clean off not only baked on maple syrup and garlic salt but now a varying array of non-edibles that are just as attracted to the favorite chicken as my children are.

Slugs, spiders, bits of chicken poop left in exchange from a beloved free-range hen.

I say “don’t put the pan in the yard”.

I say “please just clean it this time”.

I say “Your example is teaching the children bad habits”.

But as we round the corner to our first wedding anniversary, I can't help but chuckle to myself as I wipe off the slugs and lovingly make everyone's favorite chicken in my favorite Big Pan.

...

MJ

“The big pan is NOT OUT IN THE YARD AGAIN.”

No response.

“TONY there are SLUGS ALL OVER IT.”

“Lol”

“Love me” he finally texts back.

To make my family their favorite chicken, I have to use ‘The Big Pan’.

This pan is loved and hated.

Loved by Mom because I can feed my family their favorite chicken with the use of this ridiculously large baking sheet.

Hated by Dad because he does a lot of the dishes and The Big Pan does not fit in the sink or the dishwasher, and needs to be soaked in order to scrub off the baked on bits.

So in the yard the pan quietly goes.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Until everyone wants favorite chicken again.

Then I am left to clean off not only baked on maple syrup and garlic salt but now a varying array of non-edibles that are just as attracted to the favorite chicken as my children are.

Slugs, spiders, bits of chicken poop left in exchange from a beloved free-range hen.

I say “don’t put the pan in the yard”.

I say “please just clean it this time”.

I say “Your example is teaching the children bad habits”.

But as we round the corner to our first wedding anniversary, I can't help but chuckle to myself as I wipe off the slugs and lovingly make everyone's favorite chicken in my favorite Big Pan.

...

MJ

I started drinking wine when I was seven years old.

My mom took me to a store in Portland to pick out a very specific dress for the occasion. That Sunday I stood side by side with my peers in our itchy new clothes lined up to marry Jesus.

Lots of things were said by the grownups and we repeated the words just as we were taught. We had a cracker and a sip of wine. And we were told we would be saved. For now- as long as we didn’t sin before next week.

And in the inevitable case that we did sin, well, we were given the opportunity to sit alone in a small dark box with a chubby man that you could smell but not see. We tell him the naughty things we had done and ask for his forgiveness. We recite more words. As long as we did that, we were allowed to have wine again that Sunday. It always made me cringe and feel not good enough, but hey, I should feel lucky that I have a chance to confess.

I confessed in the dark, I drank my wine in the light, and hoped I was good enough to be saved.

As I got older and refused confession I would sit in the pew as people shuffled past my knees to get in line for communion. With each hushed “excuse me” all I heard was “shame, shame”.

I always noticed my aunties took gulps of their saving grace, not sips, with slightly shaky hands. I would try to take a bigger gulp each week to seem more grown up like them. I would anxiously glance around the church for a nod of approval that never came.

Now I am an auntie and I gulp my wine in the shower on a week day afternoon, no longer as a child under the blessing of a sweaty old man in a robe looming over me.

I don’t look for approval in my wine any more, but perhaps sometimes I do still look for it to save me.

And Lord knows it does.

Title: Saving Grace

Genre: Non-Fiction, Micro-Memoir

Age range: 18-100

Word count: 355

Author name: Marie Gaze

This project is a good fit because it meets the modern need for short and sweet, yet does not lack depth. It is what is between the lines that speak volumes.

Hook: the opening sentence grabs the readers attention with the heaviness of alcoholism paired with the ease of being a child.

Synopsis: a middle-aged woman looking back on her experiences as a child growing up in the Catholic church and how she carries those traditions and memories with her now.

Target audience: Anyone that was raised religious.

Bio: Marie Gaze is a 31 year old woman living in south central Alaska. A wife, a mother, a pioneer of the cannabis industry, a recovering catholic, past at-risk-youth, and micro-memoir writer.

I love writing reflection pieces that incorporate overcoming dark and heavy life experiences with a touch of light-hearted humor. My collection of micro-memoirs are relatable and fun reads that leave a mark on the readers heart.

I was raised in Wasilla, Alaska and Castle Rock, Washington and currently reside in Wasilla with my husband and three children.

My love for growing all things brings me joy wether it is plants, food, children, myself, or my community.

We live in an improbable world.

You.

Me.

The composition of the air that we breath.

The food that grows on the trees.

It is all unlikely to be.

I started drinking wine when I was seven years old.

My mom took me to a store in Portland to pick out a very specific dress for the occasion. That Sunday I stood side by side with my peers in our itchy new clothes lined up to marry Jesus.

Lots of things were said by the grownups and we repeated the words just as we were taught. We had a cracker and a sip of wine. And we were told we would be saved. For now- as long as we didn’t sin before next week.

And in the inevitable case that we did sin- well, we were given the opportunity to sit alone in a small dark box with a chubby old man that you could smell but not see. We tell him the naughty things we had done and ask for his forgiveness. We recite more words. As long as we did that, we were allowed to have wine again that Sunday. It always made me cringe and feel not good enough, but hey, I should feel lucky that I have a chance to confess.

I confessed in the dark, I drank my wine in the light, and hoped I was good enough to be saved.

As I got older and refused confession I would sit in the pew as people shuffled past my knees to get in line for communion. With each hushed “excuse me” all I heard was “shame, shame”.

I always noticed my aunties took gulps of their saving grace, not sips, with slightly shaky hands. I would try to take a bigger gulp each week to seem more grown-up like them. I would anxiously glance around the church for a nod of approval that never came.

Now I am an auntie and I gulp my wine in the shower on a week day afternoon, no longer as a child under the blessing of a sweaty man in a robe looming over me.

I don’t look for approval in my wine any more, but perhaps sometimes I do still look for it to save me.

And Lord knows it does.